


As the Scoriac Rivers That Roll

by Lupa_Eira



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-06-29 20:43:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15736992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lupa_Eira/pseuds/Lupa_Eira
Summary: Philippa Georgiou dies. Helplessly, Michael Burnham can do nothing but believe.Admittedly I meant to make an AU spanning the whole of Discovery, but I have to write original fiction for grad school applications. This story was thus put to the wayside and will now be posted as a series of unconnected oneshots. Hope you enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

Michael shaved her head in prison. She didn’t feel like waiting for the relaxed portion to grow out. Philippa had always wanted to see her with her hair completely natural, but Michael had stubbornly clung to that part of her Vulcan upbringing, where it had helped her fit in. Now she only wanted to cling to what she little she had left of Philippa—so her hair grew naturally. It framed her face in an unfamiliar way. Tentatively, she allowed herself to love it. Philippa would have. A last hurdle, having visibly “picked away the shell” of Vulcan. 

Sometimes it had felt like Philippa had wanted to rid her of Vulcan altogether. For better or worse, natural or not, it was a part of who she was—she had grown up there just as her brother had. Michael was human by birth and Vulcan by upbringing, and nothing would ever change her knowledge of the Vulcan language, martial arts, philosophy, or intimate knowledge of its culture. 

Michael had confronted her captain about it once, in that icy cold tone she substituted for anger. Instead of being defensive, Philippa had looked shocked, then thoughtful. A few days later, her captain had invited her to a free spar in the evening. 

_ “I'm interested in creating a standard system of hand-to-hand combat for the security officers,” her captain explained as they stretched.  _

_ “Doesn't Starfleet already have such a standard system in place?” Michael pointed out. _

_ “Yes, but I imagine Vulcan martial arts are even more efficient than the ones they've developed,” Philippa said. Michael stiffened. _

_ “Flattery is unnecessary, Captain.”  _

_ “And failure to acknowledge superiority, or to take advantage of resources because of personal prejudices, is as dangerous as it is stupid,” Philippa countered, face neutral. Michael felt a very human flush come hot in her ears, and strove to maintain control. “All things, even if they work, may be improved.” _

The Starfleet public relations department made Philippa Georgiou out to be their greatest hero since Zephram Cochrane. Anger throbbed, hot and visceral, somewhere below Michael’s sternum.

Not that she didn’t deserve it, of course. Not that she wasn’t one of Starfleet’s greatest captains in history, because she was. It was more that they were choosing to laud her after she had died. It was more that she wasn’t recognized while she lived. Because while it was true that Philippa was peculiarly fond of her old, well-worn  _ Shenzhou _ , it was also true that Philippa had more than deserved the flagship. It was given to the younger, more press-ready Christopher Pike. And there, too, was Spock, and sometimes it was hard not to feel jealous, or feel the parallels. Both her brother and his captain, less experienced than herself and Philippa, both later to the game, both  _ men _ (because even in the twenty-third century, in some ways, women hadn’t been able to catch all the way up), in some ways, less qualified--and they were at the flagship, with the best technology Starfleet had to offer, that is, until the  _ Discovery _ . And Philippa was not its captain, and Michael was not its first officer. 

It was, on multiple fronts, unfair. 

Philippa should have lived. Philippa should have been given command of the  _ Discovery _ . Michael’s captain was not trained for science specialization, it was true, but she had an explorer’s sense of wonder, and a soul-deep appreciation of beauty in all its forms. She would have been well-suited to a science vessel of  _ Discovery _ ’s scope, particularly with Michael at her side, where she could supervise all the science projects in more detail. Her captain would lead expeditions on icy mountains, the only one not shivering, or critically determine the best path through overgrown jungle, and Michael would have the simple pleasure of following. 

From prison, Michael watched the fanfare-laden publicity from Starfleet. Captain Georgiou was posthumously awarded honor after honor. A ship and a building at the Academy were named after her. Michael had only ever been to the Academy to visit her brother upon his graduation ceremony. The cadets in their starched blacks were as alien to her as Andoria. 

The other prisoners eyed her with disgust as report after report of the “extraordinary” Captain Georgiou made its way into the news. It hurt less than her crewmates looking at her in such a way, but it still hurt. What hurt more, however, was the way her beloved captain was already being used in a propaganda war. 

When Spock visited her in prison, Michael managed to contain her surprise within a single lifted eyebrow. 

“This is unexpected,” she said. “Surely it would be damaging to your career for you to be caught visiting me.” Spock raised his eyebrow in turn, a subtle rebuttal to the idea that he would be indiscreet.

“Captain Pike agreed to this visit on the condition of secrecy,” he said. “It will not appear on the logs.”

“Surprising,” Michael said.  _ Illogical _ remained unsaid, but hung in the air between them. “It would have been easier for you to simply stay away.”

“Easier,” Spock acknowledged, “but less ethical.”

“Surely you would not have faced being ostracized for theoretical ethics.” Michael felt outside herself. She did not know what she was trying to get him to admit. Spock stood stiffly, but still said,

“The ethics, in this case, would not be theoretical.” Michael said nothing. She would not force her brother to admit to feelings. “Mother wishes…” Spock began, then stopped. If he were human, he might have sighed. “Mother wishes me to convey her greetings, and her love. She would convey this herself, however—"

“I requested the communications blackout,” Michael interrupted, unwilling to mince words. Unwilling to  _ play _ with words, any longer. No banter, no subtlety, no implication--such lack of disclosure was best left to those who could harm none with them. Michael’s words were dangerous when she lied or concealed her meaning. She would not put deceit in any form on her tongue again. 

(In the back of her mind, her own voice— _ is this amount of sarcasm always necessary?  _ And Philippa, warm, awful— _ Necessary? No, but I do like it _ .)

Spock, stiff, hands clasped behind his back, wore that careful expression of emotionlessness that Michael knew very well was indicative of strong emotion.

“I find myself unable to grasp why you fail to utilize your resources,” he said. “Those who are...invested in your well-being. Let them help.” Michael looked to her foster brother, sighed, and stood, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her next words were terribly gentle.

“I started a war, Spock. That is not something anyone can absolve me from.”

“Regardless of the blame assigned to you by Starfleet and the press, when one examines the facts, it is clear you were not responsible for jumpstarting the violence, and nor is there any indication that the Klingons would have listened to any offer of peace,” Spock protested. Michael allowed herself to smile, tired and resigned. 

“It doesn’t matter, Spock. I started a war with my captain. I committed mutiny. That alone is worth condemning.”

Spock’s confused silence lingered with Michael long after his efficient steps vanished down the hallway. 


	2. Chapter 2

Lieutenant Stamets asked her for a secret. He had never looked at her in a friendly way while sober, but he was clearly sober now, and his gaze was tinged with undisguised fondness. In some ways, it echoed the gaze she had seen so often from Captain Georgiou.

The thought made her teeth _ache_.

Lieutenant Paul Stamets asked her for a secret. Michael had many secrets. There were none she would be comfortable sharing, but there was a truth she knew in her bones that only she could tell the wording of. She leaned up to his ear and whispered,

“ _I have never been in love_.”

The Vulcan definition of love was different than the human sense. For Vulcans, anyone they loved was a part of them. There was a reason marriages were called a _bond_ ; there was a reason the word _t’hy’la_ was not translatable to Federation Standard. Friend, brother, lover—in context, a battlefield partnership in the ancient times, but one that went beyond tactical and practical reasons and more to the creation of a unit. _Parted from me and never parted_.

Captain Philippa Georgiou was someone whom Michael would define as t’hy’la. Perhaps not in the traditional definition of the word--they were neither of them Vulcans, after all—but perhaps in the traditional _idea_ of the word, the idea of a person who could be many and all things. Michael had no need for another parent; she already had had four. But a teacher, a captain, a friend--those were new. Those were everything. Was it in any way surprising that Michael had found herself bound up so inevitably?

To be on _Discovery_ , to be with Ash, she had practically had to reinvent herself altogether. It was not a bad thing, not at all, to be in love in the human way—tentative, comforting, gradual in its exploration. But Ash Tyler was not everything. He had not changed the axis on which she defined herself. He simply fit, until he didn’t.

Philippa Georgiou had been _everything_.

Teacher, yes. Captain, yes, and all the myriad, murky emotions that came with that balance of power. Frustration, determination, being pushed to succeed, and desperate, desperate need for approval--yes, those had belonged to her captain. But also present was the coolness of professional discipline, the joy in gaining the confidence to use her skills in a way that was needed. And then, there was fun. A quip made across tea in the mornings, a fond teasing of Saru, a wry remark to Michael when things were not going smoothly. The first time her captain had done that, Michael had said nothing, amazed at the _function_ of the remark—nothing but emotional camaraderie as an intention. The first time she had bantered back, her captain had beamed.

Friend, yes. Family, yes.

Lover? That was harder to define. They had certainly not been an item by the ways humans generally measured such things—physical affection, public declaration of intent, or even a verbal understanding. But sometimes something drifted between them, a meeting of minds or a small brush of skin, and Michael was left in awe of their rightness together. Wasn’t that something? Wasn’t that everything?

Philippa Georgiou had been bound up in every aspect of her identity for seven years. Her dignity and self-control, even in emotional distress, was something all Vulcans aspired to, and yet this human achieved it seemingly effortlessly. There was a remarkable blend in her of privacy and utter lack of shame in talking about the past. Michael had not previously known that one could be at peace with their worst and yet still keep it to themselves. She had believed only that shameful things were what needed hiding, but Philippa Georgiou had made her see the nuance of dignity.

She had been open, and honest, and placed a priority of caring for those under her, even those who did not want to be cared for. The crew’s loyalty to her was rock-solid and nearly fanatic; there was not a single one among them who did not think of Captain Philippa Georgiou without respect and fondness. But Philippa was not perfect. Michael knew this perhaps better than anyone else on the _Shenzhou_ —her very job was to be close to her captain and work with her as a team. Her captain’s convictions in her ideals, her ability to reflect clearly and use her life experience to help her command, her intelligence, her fierce desire to teach and prepare those under her for the wider galaxy—those were strengths, and made her one of Starfleet’s most decorated captains in history. But those same qualities occasionally made her inflexible, even a little authoritarian, a little unwilling to take the counsel of those around her, who were younger, less experienced.

Stamets asked her for a secret, so Michael told him the only truth she knew— _I have never been in love_.

Love, in the Vulcan definition, was inherently reciprocal. There could be no bond not between at least two people. Love could not be one-sided and still be love; that was an entirely different emotion. Michael had not been in love, because her captain, while she certainly had loved her, had not ( _could_ not) have reciprocated.

The idea that Philippa had died and had never loved her the way Michael might, sometimes, have wanted, was so much better than believing that she _had_. Philippa’s last will and testament, which she had only watched but the once, brought her a bittersweet comfort in that regard. All Michael had needed to do to assuage her grief was burn her whole identity to the ground. With only her knowledge of her own, non-reciprocated feelings, she had no one to detach from, or empty space to fill.

(Of course, it was not that simple. It wasn’t even logical.)

Paul came into her quarters at a time he knew Tilly would be out, and stood stiffly, with his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides—wary, she assumed, of being a lurker.

“Did you ask anyone else for a secret?” she asked him, while he curiously peered at the telescope in the corner and the real book on her bed. He shook his head.

“You were the only one who reacted fast enough,” he said. “Pretty much no questions asked, from you. Tyler was too paranoid.”

“I see,” she said. And then, before she could stop herself, she added, “I was going by the Vulcan definition, you know.” Paul turned to her, no judgement, just curiosity. “On Vulcan, there is no such thing as love without reciprocity. Romantic love is defined by the reality of courtship and bonds, not based on one person’s feelings.” Paul stayed silent for a moment, absorbing her words with due consideration. He pulled out a chair at the table and sat down with a sigh. Michael, feeling vulnerability yawn like an open wound in her chest, sat down on the bed. Her foot kicked the case that contained Philippa’s last words, and she flinched. Paul didn’t miss it. He was observant, and it was shockingly obvious from a woman who never flinched at anything.

“Can I ask who?” he said carefully. Michael did not trust her throat to speak. She could remain steady through any fight with any Klingon, through any anxiety of Tilly’s, through any argument with Lorca or Saru or anyone else. But anything to do with Philippa, and her steadiness was gone without her Captain’s hand on her shoulder. In the absence of words, she cradled Philippa’s comm badge carefully in one hand, unable to resist thumbing the lettering as she passed it to Paul. He took it from her gently and looked up in surprise when he read the name. “Wow,” he said. “I guess, though, that it makes sense.”

“Really?” The idea was surprising. Philippa had been twenty-four years older than her, and her superior officer. Most would not have assumed a romantic attachment to be at all likely.

“Well, frankly, it makes everything make sense in hindsight,” Paul clarified. “I was kind of confused that you didn’t seem to actually regret the mutiny. So why were you so determined to go back to prison and punish yourself? But then I hooked myself up to the spore drive because I thought Hugh was going to die if I didn't. And then I did watch him die, dozens of times, in that time loop. And I realized that not only would I go against Hugh’s wishes to save him, but that I would do literally anything.” He didn’t bother elaborating more; he didn’t need to.

Philippa’s ghost rose up in her like heat on hot sand, burning.


	3. Chapter 3

When Ash told her that he wanted to leave Starfleet, Michael froze like Philippa’s favored winter skies. She thought she had cut out all remnants of her captain from her new life, but Philippa’s words rolled through her over and over again-- _ you are curious. An explorer _ . The knowledge slammed into her like thunder through heaving air. She would never be able to settle for anything less than Starfleet, not with Philippa’s words under her skin, not unless she was deliberately punishing herself. Ash’s honest heartbreak echoed coldly in her caverned chest, and her heart didn’t seem to know where to go.

In the aftermath, Tilly asked Michael to go to a poetry reading with her, and Michael was willing. As a child, she had enjoyed Shakespeare and she and Spock fought over pre-Reform Vulcan poetry. When she heard that Lieutenant Owosekun was organizing a poetry reading, Michael had considered going, but dismissed the idea of going alone. People would’ve expected her to be with Ash, and she wasn’t quite ready to face the idea of being considered single in a public setting. Thank goodness for Tilly. The crewman’s lounge was filled with an amiable mix of uniforms and civilian clothing, and Michael made herself comfortable in the back. There was no need to mingle unnecessarily; she was content to watch Tilly chatter with some of her friends.

The first two performances were pleasant enough—Lieutenant Owosekun herself opened the gathering with an original poem accompanied with soft guitar, and Ensign M’ben performed a decent rendering of Hamlet’s famous soliloquy. Michael had just begun to really settle into her seat for the night when the next performer was ushered onstage. Keyla Detmer stepped up. Her gaze, only half her own, was defiant. Michael’s stomach plummeted with a sense of foreboding.

“Captain Georgiou was like a mother to me,” Detmer said. The mention of Philippa’s name sent shockwaves through Michael’s system. She gripped the arms of her chair as Detmer continued, “To all of us, on the  _ Shenzhou _ . So in honor of her, here is Walt Whitman’s  _ O Captain! My Captain. _ ”

Michael couldn’t move. Her mind, detached, observed that her heart rate had doubled, her breathing had become shallow and irregular, and her palms were breaking out in a cold, clammy sweat. She was dragged under the current of the familiar words as Keyla Detmer read.

“ _O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,_ _  
__The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,_ _  
__The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,_ _  
___While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

_ But O heart! heart! Heart! _

_ O the bleeding drops of red, _

_ Where on the deck my Captain lies,  _

_ Fallen cold and dead—” _

Michael was out of her seat by the end of the first verse. The spaces in front of her had blurred and so had her skin, under a sheen of cold sweat. She felt rather than saw Keyla’s wide, surprised eyes on her as she left—hadn’t realized she was there, then—and wondered for a second if the  _ Discovery _ ’s artificial gravity was malfunctioning, because the floor felt like it was shifting under her feet. Michael was aware of a noise, heavy, like a pipe in a Jeffries tube hissing out some gas, and could hardly comprehend that it was her own breathing. She practically fell against the door, keying in her access code. Michael barely made it into her quarters before she fell to her knees and began to silently keen, completely, utterly powerless against the waves and waves of emotions her human heart so helplessly felt.

Where was her normally dignified grief? Unlike many humans, Michael had found that grief did not usually turn her into this—heaving, unable to withstand the onslaught of emotion. Most of it was her Vulcan upbringing, but a good portion of it was simply who she was, and more than that, who she had been  _ encouraged _ to be, by Sarek, but more importantly, by Philippa.  _ Philippa _ . A fresh wave of agony rose from her chest to her arms. Her fingers curled uselessly against the thin carpet in her quarters, a mirror image to when she had materialized on the landing pad. Alone.

A cry tore itself free her throat, and suddenly Michael couldn’t  _ stop _ , she was sobbing,  _ wailing _ in the human way, and felt everything in her stomach and her arms and her chest and her  _ heart _ and 

_ oh captain, my captain _

_ Philippa. _

There was so much pain, like her chest was collapsing in on itself. Michael was aware, suddenly, that she was hyperventilating, but she couldn’t stop. Surak’s teachings were as distant as death itself. The door to her quarters opened and she heard Tilly’s familiar footsteps.

“Michael!” she called, urgent and unlike her normal bubbliness, but her voice was too  _ loud _ , it sent thunder down to Michael’s bones. Michael flinched as hands fell on her shoulders, Tilly’s familiar face appearing much too close, etched with concern. “Michael, what—”

“I can’t breathe,” Michael forced out in between her shallow gasps. Distantly, she knew she needed help of some kind, but the only thing that felt real was the slight burn in her fingertips from dragging them across the carpet. Part of her mind processed that Tilly was saying something to someone, and what felt like hours later (though it could only have been a few moments), Dr. Culber’s face came into view.

“Michael, you’re having a panic attack,” he said soothingly, quiet, but it was still too loud. Michael whimpered.  _ Philippa _ ,  _ help me, I don’t know what to do _ . “I’m going to give you something so your cells get more oxygen, okay?” The pain of the hypo was barely noticeable amongst everything else, but Michael still flinched at the proximity of the click it made when Dr. Culber pressed it down. “Now, I want you to look at me, if you can. If you can’t, that’s okay. We’re going to breathe in for four counts, and out for four counts. Try to do it through your nose, if you can. Okay, ready?” For the next several minutes, Dr. Culber helped her slow her breathing down, until sounds didn’t ring in her ears and the feelings in her chest weren’t pressing down quite so hard. Dr. Culber gently wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, and Michael hadn’t even realized until then just how cold she was, or how much she was shivering. 

“Thank you,” she murmured. 

“It’s what I do, Michael,” Dr. Culber said with a small smile. He stretched out a little on the floor next to her, sighing. “I just wish I could do more.”

“There’s nothing you can do about this,” Michael assured him, pulling the blanket closer around herself. Now that her thoughts were clear again, she was aware of how much her head was pounding. “She’s gone, and it’s my fault, and there’s nothing anyone can do about that.” Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, but Michael was too exhausted to do anything but let them be.

“Captain Georgiou,” Dr. Culber said, and it wasn’t quite a question. Michael nodded, unsurprised that he had guessed. “Unfortunately, since I’m a medical officer, I have to have something to report after this. But we can keep it casual. No delving into too much detail unnecessarily.” Michael made herself more comfortable on the floor. Dr. Culber was a good, trustworthy man. She knew that. And she really didn’t want to put him into a position where Lorca asked him too many questions.

“It’s fine, really,” she said. And it was. She felt worn out and exhausted, but she had recovered more quickly than most. It was just how she was. “Lieutenant Owosekun was holding a poetry reading. Keyla Detmer was up third and chose to read Walt Whitman’s  _ O Captain, my Captain _ . That was the trigger. I suppose it’s a little obvious.” She sighed. “Even if we win the war, she’ll still be gone.”

“I just made a decision,” Dr. Culber declared. Michael, confused, turned to him. “This is staying off the record. Lorca doesn’t need to know about this.” 

“Don’t risk discharge on my behalf, Dr. Culber,” Michael protested. “Put it on the record.”

“I just have a feeling that Lorca knowing anyone’s weaknesses is dangerous,” Dr. Culber said darkly. Michael said nothing. He was probably right, and even with the blanket, the room was cold.


	4. Chapter 4

Michael woke one morning, utterly disoriented. The ceiling was all wrong and it was hard to feel the continuous humming of the ship. Was something wrong with the warp drive? Surely everyone else would have woken up too, all hands on deck. Especially on an old ship like the  _ Shenzhou _ , it used so much energy in outdated places, so everyone could feel if something was wrong. Like residents of a seaside town when the water retreated for a tidal wave—

Michael stopped dead as she swung herself out of bed and came face to face with Tilly, who had likely never seen her this panicked-looking. She glanced at the uniform she had been shoving herself into—silver, not gold. Science specialist, not first officer.  _ Discovery _ , not  _ Shenzhou _ . Sarek would have been disappointed with her lack of control. Amanda would have been comforting. Philippa...Philippa would have made a joke, or told a story. No, Philippa wouldn’t have said anything at all, would’ve just given her a smile and a nod when she got to the bridge, because she would have been proud that Michael’s senses were attuned to the ship so well. 

Philippa wouldn’t say anything at all. She was gone. She was not on the  _ Discovery _ or anywhere else.

Tilly watched as Michael seemed to deflate, back into that tired, close-mouthed person she had been when she first came aboard. It was something about her eyes; they narrowed a bit and seemed, well, dead. 

“A-are you okay?” she asked, stammering a little.

“Yes,” her roommate said, a somewhat unreadable expression on her face. Tilly was an open book, and her concern must still have been showing, because Michael sighed and finished zipping up her uniform. “I just was a little disoriented. Don't worry about it; it's passed.”

Michael went through her day much like a normal human would, without the training of her razor-sharp Vulcan-trained focus. Very few people noticed. Tilly noticed. Paul noticed. Ash noticed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief character study of Philippa Georgiou (at least, my personal conception of her).

Philippa Georgiou had ancestry in the tropics, in islands, in oceans, but she came of age under winter suns. For all her summers before the Academy, she followed her parents to whatever ice planet, taiga, or temperate winter they wished to partake in. Being landscape photographers, specializing particularly in those climates, they often travelled while their daughter was at school, but always included her in their summer trips. Philippa was not born to snow or cold, but it was by them that she found her best definition of beauty. She found it in starkness, in desolation, and the humility of being alone in a vast wilderness.

Philippa cultivated beauty in the way her parents had taught her--to see what is, unaltered, and if it must be changed, to do so in a way that enhances what is already there, instead of altering what fundamentally made it beautiful. Beauty was at the forefront of importance in her life, until her parents were killed by an anti-Federation Andorian extremist. It was supposed to be a routine trip to visit friends they had made there over the years, and photograph the equatorial ice floes. Suddenly, beauty didn’t seem so important—but Philippa, already accepted into the Academy, already with Andorian friends and a kindly mentor with a twinkle in his eye, did not give into despair. 

Philippa chose hope, and took an internship during the summer on Andoria at the Laikan Military Academy. She met with friends of her parents and, when Andoria and the rest of the Federation went to war with the Tellarites, she was assigned to assist their cause, at least initially as a negotiator. Still, she lived through more than her fair share of battles. There was nothing glorious about death in this way, or at all. Battle was a mess, and though Philippa was good enough at war to gain the respect of even the Andorians, the screams and the deaths rang in her ears and shook in her fingers, and she could never revel in it. Philippa kept her eyes on the prize—peace with the Tellarites—even when, at the negotiation table, her dearest friend was literally stabbed in the back. But Philippa negotiated a peace deal anyway.

Yes, Philippa Georgiou had lost so much. But Philippa always chose hope. She had to lift herself up, otherwise she would collapse under the weight of her life.

She had never been one to accept any situation as it was. She had always been a fighter.

She had never wanted fame or superfluous acknowledgement, and when they gave her the  _ Shenzhou _ , genuine happiness prickled at the corners of her mouth, in her belly, shuddering and buoyant. A small family, out in the ocean of space. 

And then, one day, Philippa Georgiou died. But Philippa Georgiou also lived.

Her heart was stopped by a Klingon blade on the deck of a Klingon ship, and though it was not ideal, not how she would have  _ wanted _ to die, there was still honor in it. In fact, condemning herself to die was, ironically, the only way she would have been able to live with herself. Michael had been right. She hadn’t gone about it in the right way, not by a long shot, but Michael had been right.

It was the last thought she had when T’kuvma’s blade pierced her chest.


	6. Chapter 6

_ “Captain to Commander Burnham. Are you in your quarters, Michael? _ ” Michael, who was settling down into meditation before bed, reached for her comm. 

“Yes, Captain?”

“ _ Could you come to my quarters, please? It's nothing urgent.”  _  Michael nearly responded, then thought better of it and simply went through the bathroom, only pausing to grab her padd in case of need. She knocked lightly on the door to Philippa’s quarters. “Come in,” her captain’s voice called. She was greeted by the sight of Philippa resting in bed, with one of her feet elevated. A boulder had nearly crushed them during an away mission. They had beamed to investigate the sudden onset of severe tectonic shifts on a Federation colony. However, though their models had projected a safe period of seven hours without an earthquake, they had found themselves in the middle of a strong one when an avalanche of rocks had suddenly descended. Michael had managed to roll out of the way, but Philippa had suffered a broken foot. Her captain had borne it fairly stoically, but it had been hard for Michael to keep from panicking. The sight of Philippa waylaid now, even if she was not in pain and had been cared for, briefly stole the breath from Michael’s lungs. She folded her hands behind her back, so they did not tremble. 

“May I be of assistance, Captain?” Philippa laughed. 

“I suppose it's a bit embarrassing,” she said, “but I  _ am _ trying to take Dr. Nambue seriously and stay off my foot. However, I seem to have left both my padd with my paperwork and my book on the side table.” She smiled. “Would you mind saving me from an evening of boredom?”

“Of course, Captain,” Michael said, smiling despite herself. So much of who she had come to be revolved around service; she genuinely was glad to be able to do even this small thing for her captain. Moving to the side table, Michael picked up the padd, and blinked in recognition at the book beside it, a collection of short stories and poems by—“Edgar Allen Poe?” she asked, hardly resisting the urge to run her fingers down the page edges.

“Dark, I know,” Philippa said wryly, “but I’ve always enjoyed the rhythm of his poetry. Are you familiar with Poe, Michael?”

“ _ Here once, through an alley Titanic/of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—/of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul _ ,” Michael quoted. Philippa’s eyes locked with hers, mouth slightly parted, pleased. Though the next lines of the poem were in the forefront of her mind, Michael curbed her words, feeling the recklessness of it, if she allowed the truth to pour off her tongue. The silence between them flowed like the poetry, hearts and minds locked in rhythm. Michael was almost startled when Philippa spoke. 

“You are an excellent reader, Michael,” she said, her voice low and admiring. “I wonder that I haven't seen you read at Keyla’s poetry gatherings.” 

“As an ensign, I had no desire to fraternize with crewmates. As a senior officer…”

“It didn't seem appropriate,” Philippa finished for her. A mischievous glint lit up her eyes. “Why don't you fraternize with me for the evening?” 

“I suppose I would be remiss in my duties as first officer if I failed to assist you with your reports,” Michael said, managing to sound genuinely thoughtful, even with her eyes lit up with teasing. Philippa grinned, and patted the spot next to her on the bed. Michael raised an eyebrow.

“I can’t exactly move,” Philippa said, a wry twist to her mouth. “Either you sit at the desk across the room, and get up every five minutes, or you sit next to me. Take your pick, Number One.”

Michael settled down next to Philippa on the bed, slightly more stiff than she intended. Still, Philippa did not tease her further, just took the padd from her and began scrolling through a report from the botany labs. Michael resolutely began scanning Saru’s reports, but couldn’t help, every few minutes, glancing slightly to her left, where her captain lay—in civvies, now, off-duty, a loose white top and Starfleet-issue sleep bottoms. There was a strange, nearly domestic intimacy to it, to the vulnerability, Michael’s bare feet resting on the coverlet, Philippa occasionally turning to Michael and murmuring in a low voice about something or other. Michael was very nearly driven to distraction by the slight red tinge to Philippa’s hair in the low light, by the crow’s feet beside her eyes.

After a time, Philippa laid the padd aside. Satisfied weariness tugged at her eyelids, and she laid back against her pillows, eyes closed.

“Michael?” she murmured.

“Yes, Captain?” Michael pitched her voice low, so as not to disturb her easing into sleep. 

“Would you read  _ Ulalume _ ? You really do have a lovely voice.” Looking at her captain now, hands folded over her stomach and face smooth from honest exhaustion, Michael could do nothing but pick up the book and begin to read. She did not need it, with her eidetic memory, but it was good to feel the pages of a real book under her fingers, all the same.

“ _ The skies they were ashen and sober;/The leaves they were crispéd and sere— _ ” Gradually, Philippa’s breathing evened out as she fell into sleep, with her head tilted every so slightly toward her first officer. Michael allowed herself to stare, to memorize the sight of her beloved captain with her sleep-smooth forehead and relaxed mouth. She stopped reading from the book, but did not stop her recitation as she gazed directly at Philippa. “ _ Here once, through an alley Titanic/of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—/of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul _ …” Her throat bobbed as she whispered, “ _ These were days when my heart was volcanic/as the scoriac rivers that roll—” _

When Philippa awoke around 0800 hours the next morning, Michael was still next to her. She had folded her legs up under her in meditation, and her eyes were closed, and breathing steady. With no one to see it, Philippa smiled, tenderly, lovingly, and still did not allow herself to reach out—to brush a lock of hair from Michael’s forehead, to trace her smooth, warm fingers. When Michael opened her eyes, she immediately turned to Philippa, a small, gentle smile playing about her lips.

“Good morning, Captain,” she murmured. Words she had spoken a hundred times before, a thousand, but never like this, never so comfortably and intimately as this. 

“Hello, Michael.” Philippa stretched, long and languid, and Michael could not bring herself to be ashamed of staring at her captain’s long limbs, of listening to her appreciative groans as her muscles warmed. “I see you’ve made use of the shower already.”

“I anticipated you might require assistance.”

“No percentage?”

“If you desire precision, I anticipated a ninety-eight percent likelihood you would require assistance.”

“So high? I’m not quite an invalid, Michael.”

“No, but you did kick the wheelchair Dr. Nambue gave you into the corner.” Michael nodded toward the far end of the room where, sure enough, was a wheelchair. “Which, I may add, you neglected to mention last night when you asked me to retrieve your book.”

“Or perhaps you neglected to observe.”

“Negative,” Michael grinned. “Upon observing it, I neglected to  _ retrieve _ it.”

“Dare I ask your reasons?” Philippa laughed, sitting up and glancing at the chair in question, “Or can I assume you just like having the Captain at your mercy?” 

Michael merely smiled. She could have brought the wheelchair over the night before, or this morning, and avoided her continued presence—but she had not. Alternatively, Philippa could certainly have asked her to retrieve the wheelchair the evening before, instead of retrieving the books and padd from the side table—but she had not. All this knowledge remained between them as Michael brought the wheelchair over. 

Philippa helped herself into it, wheeled herself to their shared bathroom.

“I’ll see you on the bridge, Number One,” she said, and did not allow herself to look back. Michael simply stared, book still in her hands, heart caverned and volcanic.


	7. Chapter 7

_ Philippa dreams. _

Dreams were living things, and Philippa’s mind was orderly, even in sleep. When the nightmares came, she was able to banish them, always one foot in waking, or redirect them as she chose. Lucid dreaming was a very useful skill. From this dream, however, Philippa was not inclined to awaken. 

“ _ Isik _ for your thoughts.” Michael’s voice washed around her. Though Philippa knew, in her objective dreaming, that she had not been there before, when she turned, Michael was sitting beside her. The white sands of her home beaches, Pulau Langkawi, were strangely untextured where they sat and their hands lay, almost floating, but if Philippa looked down at them, she knew she would be able to pick out the shine of individual grains. She did not look down. The sun shone bronze against Michael’s cheekbones, revealed the clever twinkle of her eye. 

“I’m self-aware enough, Michael, to know that I am an honest individual.”

“Sincere, I think, would be more precise. You’re purposeful and deliberate, but not calculating.”

“No,” Philippa disagreed. “In principles, perhaps. In emotions...”

“You do tend to conflate the two.” Michael stood in the water, instantly disappeared from her side. White robes flowed around her, dragging and pooling with the current. 

“You think that is a mistake?”

“Tactically? No.” Michael smiled, trailing her hands through the water with no small delight. Desert-raised creature that she was, even in dreams, Michael marvelled at the sea. “Your leadership is far too effective to suggest otherwise. But can you blame me for wishing you separated them from time to time?” Philippa hummed, wholly aware she was speaking to herself.

“What was it Amanda always said to you?” Michael looked up, gaze soft.

“That feelings are inevitable, but behavior is not.” Michael stepped closer, unhindered by the weight of real water, real conversation. “Are we inevitable, Philippa?” She took Philippa’s hand, pulling her up and into the water. The metal of Philippa’s uniform was heavy against her skin, even in dreams.

“Soul to soul, Michael,” Philippa said, because she was honest with herself. “In some way.” She cupped Michael’s cheeks in one hand, and her first officer leaned down slightly, eyes knowing. 

“And it’s not enough,” Michael said, no judgement, no accusation. 

Philippa pulled herself out of the dream, out of dark eyes into a dark room. 

“It’s not that you’re not enough, Michael,” she murmured, turning to one side, staring at the wall between her room and her first officer’s.  _ And it’s not me _ .

It was just that a meeting of minds was not a meeting of circumstances. Soul to soul, in some way, flung among the stars, but not written in them.

Even so, Michael Burnham’s very presence washed around her, always peripheral, strong and bright.

Philippa did not let herself stare at the wall; she made herself go back to sleep. 

_ Michael dreams _ .

Michael dreamed in visually fragmented narratives, sometimes aware, sometimes not. Small details turned dreams on a hair as her mind explored possibilities, unhindered, tangential, exhilarating. Stars arced and danced, and Michael understood their architecture, the math of it falling into place the way it only could in dreams. Dreams were for the mystery-solving. Michael always hoped that they would follow her to waking. The cosmos whirled around her, brilliant and ever-forming.

“No mystery to the stars, Michael?”

“Not in dreams. But it does not follow that only mysteries give rise to wonder.” She turned, and found Philippa, as she had expected, hair lit by the reddish glow of a stellar nursery. A small smile graced her captain’s face, the subtle one she used when she was very pleased. “Beauty, even when broken down to its elements, is still beauty.”

“There are those who would disagree with that.” Philippa was not one of them, and Michael knew that. She played along. Michael so loved to play with words.

“And how would you define beauty, Captain?” She walked toward her captain, feet alighting on a comet trail. Philippa retreated, languid, to the red nebula.

“To see what is, unaltered.” Her eyes never left Michael’s.

“You define beauty as an act?” They were still circling each other, energy between them outward and inward. Philippa’s eyes flickered upward.

“Beauty is perception and definition.” Philippa’s voice had taken on that precise, analytical quality she used when there was emotion behind her words she didn’t want to express. She traced a hand through space, and a cascade of stars followed her fingers. Distance and physics meant nothing to architect dreamers. “It is not, and never will be, objective. But it is the act of defining it which makes it personal.” Michael bit down on a grin, keeping her face neutral. Here was the challenge.

“And your personal definition?” It was not the same question as before. The weight of the words was different, the inflection, the faux neutrality belying her eagerness. 

Philippa met her eyes. Michael woke. 

She stared at the wall between her captain’s quarters and her own, and lifted a hand, tugging, collapsing the distance.


	8. Chapter 8

On ocean worlds, they were on equal grounds of wonder. The  _ Shenzhou _ was conducting a routine survey mission on a planet so far only inhabited by fish and crustaceans. Philippa took this opportunity for her command team to get some collective R&R while the survey team did its work. Saru had declined to come planetside—how the Kelpien first officer could be comfortable in space but not near the ocean, Michael wasn’t certain, but it left herself and her captain alone on the shore. The planet had a locked orbit, and from where they were standing, an eternal sunset. Michael would be lying if she said it wasn’t beautiful. These days, she wouldn’t have been inclined to lie about it.

Her captain stood on the edge of the water, jacket, boots, and pips discarded carefully further up the beach, pants rolled up to enjoy the surf. Philippa seemed content to silently watch the waves and the sunset, and Michael was content to watch her watching—at least for a while. With no one around but her captain, whose gaze was turned away, Michael felt overcome with a very human urge to  _ express _ —express what, she was unsure, or was hesitant to name. But she stood and followed it. Almost before she realized, her feet had spread, right foot front, left foot back, hips sunk low to center her balance. In front of the planet’s perpetual sunset, Michael performed one of the oldest open-hand katas of the Suus Mahna. 

The beach under her feet was not quite the sand of Shi’Kahr, but it was close enough to pretend. As a teenager, she would sometimes use her afternoons to do this in the shaded area of Amanda’s gardens, when logic felt so far away, and her human emotions and needs were too close to the surface. Sometimes Spock joined her in silent companionship.  The physicality of martial arts, moving meditation, helped soothe their humanity better than Surak’s strictures. It was one of the few times she and Spock had not fought as teenagers.

It was harder to keep her core steady and her movements precise with the sand shifting under her feet. Michael welcomed the challenge, the test of her control over her fine muscle movements. The form required her to imagine, in great detail, two opponents from separate directions. After subduing the first, Michael turned away from the shore, beating her second opponent, who had a staff, back—eventually taking their staff and ramming it into their solar plexus, then their throat. After assuring herself of her opponent’s downfall, she turned back to the first, in case they had recovered, coming to the final, alert stance—and found her captain watching her.

Philippa deliberately picked her way up the beach, sand sticking to her wet feet. Michael did not move from the final stance until Philippa came just into fighting distance. Philippa relaxed backward into what Michael recognized as a southern wushu stance from Earth.

For a moment, they silently tested each other. Michael moved first, capitalizing on the height of the tension. Testing kicks, taps, but no follow through. Philippa knew her movements well. She needed a very precise opening.

Philippa was relaxed, even through the spar. “What’s on your mind, Michael?” she asked, landing several light taps to Michael’s ribcage. Her first officer doubled down on defense, even as she pressed forward.

“I find myself puzzled that your science officer did not avail himself of the opportunity to explore a planet in this stage of development from the ground.”

“Saru’s curiosity has to fight through his fear,” Philippa said. Her leg flashed out, fishing for a hook. “He reconciles it by staying at a distance.” Her smile grew sly. Michael nearly lost her target from her pleasure at the sight. “I’ll bet you the last Andorian fish puff that he’ll come down in the next hour because he’s nervous about us being here.”

“Captain, you are quite literally the only one on board that eats those,” Michael protested. She gripped the sand with her toes, preparing an attack.

“Then you’ll have the satisfaction of depriving me.” There could be no satisfaction in depriving her captain, and Philippa saw this in Michael’s face, falling silent. Her lips pursed ever-so-slightly, and she focused on their bout with intent. Her leg flashed out again, hooking around Michael’s calf. One twist, and they were both on the ground, Philippa’s hand in a bar across Michael’s throat. 

Her first officer didn’t mind. The sunset slid behind Philippa’s eyes, bringing out the red under the brown. 

The sound of the transporter came from further up on the beach.

“Captain? Commander?” Saru’s voice, edged with discomfort, came closer to them. “Are you all right?” Michael bit down on her lip to keep from laughing. The eye contact still between them made it far more intimate than the position alone. 

“Guess you’re getting that fish puff,” she said. Philippa raised her eyebrows, mouth twitching, before saying,

“Just a quick spar, Commander. I take it something has captured your interest?” She sat up, draping herself gracefully on the sand. Michael felt the cold air rushing where her captain’s warm body had been and stood. Saru approached with a kind of puzzled hesitancy. 

“Yes, Captain,” he said, giving Michael a look of concern. Michael schooled her features to be neutral. She did not have the luxury to examine her feelings at the moment. “It seems that the crustacean life-forms on this planet have developed in three distinct evolutionary directions…”

Philippa and Saru spent a few hours trekking up and down the beach, peering into the waves, Michael needling Saru good-naturedly about his refusal to go into the water, Saru shooting back replies about his duties as science officer. Michael didn’t know why she stayed, except for the tugging under her sternum toward her captain, except that once, Philippa glanced back towards her, and her face softened, just for a moment. Michael blinked, and it was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

Philippa stood in the rain. Droplets ran down her face and dripped off her wrists where they hung uselessly by her sides. The communicator in her hand had long ago shorted out. She sank in the wet soil to her ankles, caught in a bizarre tangle of stone. Their shuttle had tumbled from the air, crash-landing in the only, miraculous gap in the jagged rocks for miles. The shuttle was hardly salvageable. The rain was punishing. Michael was badly hurt, might die if they didn’t get help within the next few hours.

Philippa looked up at the sky, convinced the mountain had swallowed them.

And just behind her, a delirious Michael sat in the cave’s mouth, drinking in the sight of her.

_Blessed, relentless storm, full of prayer, prayer-fall—_

Philippa turned to her, eyes concerned. She said something and the words washed over Michael’s ears, static as tide. Floating and feverish, she felt her captain’s rainy hands smooth over her forehead. A blessing.

“—with me, Michael,” words came. The tone escaped her, but perhaps it was logical to assume it was worried. “Tell me something. Did it ever rain on Vulcan?”

On Vulcan, rain was sacred, it was _sacred_ how the dry, clogging dust turned to cool red mud. Sarek told her it was not logical to dance in the rain and track mud between her toes, and Michael had been too young to find the words for _awe_ and _wonder_ and how something that rose so easily in her could not possibly be illogical.

“Michael?”

A great rolling went through the sky and Philippa’s voice embedded Michael’s bones, and she knew its name—

Thunder-heart, the Vulcans called their heroes, those singular enough to deserve blessing, those who had persevered, those who had struggled.

_Oh, the rain-worthy, the sky-eyed—_

“Michael? You need to stay awake.”

 _Philippa. Philippa, rain-worthy, thunder-heart. Blessed, relentless Philippa._ _  
_

“Michael? Tell me about the rain.”

In all ancient, pre-Reform creation myths across Vulcan, the common denominator was water. In many destruction myths, the same. Scientists later theorized that like with Noah’s ark and a hundred other stories on Earth, they signified some great climatic change most of the planet bore witness to, passed down through their stories and later evidenced by careful study. A myth, the scientists at the Academy said, to explain that which their ancestors did not have the means to understand. Nothing more.

Michael knew better. Michael knew that the rain was uncontrollable and unpredictable and scientific understanding had nothing to do with dispelling myth.

_Philippa. Rain-worthy. Thunder-heart. Beloved. Beloved. Beloved._

Her ribs were cracked, spilling out her heart between them. Michael did not feel when the _Shenzhou_ beam took them, or Philippa’s hand on hers.

 

Philippa stood outside sickbay. She was too experienced to pace, but her hands were twitchy. She folded them. She breathed.

“Captain?” Dr. Nambue poked his head through the door. His smile was gentle, but knowing. Philippa constantly had to remind herself not to underestimate him. Unassuming did not mean unintelligent. The doctor gestured her inside. “Commander Burnham is awake. She’ll need a further day’s rest before she can return to duty.”

Philippa breathed out slowly, letting the tension dissipate from her shoulders. A smile smile lit Dr. Nambue’s face. Graciously, he did not comment, but simply stepped back from the doorway to allow her through.

Barred from sickbay, she had spent a restless evening tracking down Micahel's words, stumbling through translated pre-Reform Vulcan texts, getting caught up in warrior tales, staggering epics that dizzied her senses. There were the stories of quests, of ordinary people who stood against impossible odds and towering evils, and those of lone warriors making last stands against innumerable enemies, drawing strength from the land and the rain and the lessons of long-dead friends. There were the warrior-companions, the t’hy’la, drawn together by soul and deeper than soul, the war-worn and the weary, who faced death with bared teeth and indomitable will.

These stories were the ones Michael had grown with, must have read furtively under the covers, away from the eyes of Sarek. Or perhaps Amanda had read them to her and her foster brother, teaching them of passion and rain along with Alice and her mad tea parties.

And Michael had called her rain-worthy. Her eyes had been so impossibly clear, invoking a phrase so potently, absolutely pre-Reform. Imprecise. Even illogical. The phrase had appeared a hundred times in the texts with as many contexts, but one thing was clear—it meant singular, it meant _loved_.

And to follow it with thunder-heart—

Philippa walked into sickbay. Michael was waiting for her. Her eyes tracked Philippa as she came closer, just as keen, just as brilliant. Philippa didn't have to feign the calm she settled into, the precision returning to her movements. All was well.

They were content to gaze for a long moment, assessing.

“What happened?” Michael finally asked. “I don't remember much.”

“Your eidetic memory has failed you?”

“My mind was confused, so the memories are confused as well. Besides, though I have trained to have an excellent memory, I am not Vulcan. I am not naturally eidetic.” Philippa sat in the chair next to the cot, surprised at a certain purposelessness to Michael's words. Sharing without intent. She must be more worn out than Dr. Nambue had let on, if she lacked their normal precision.

“There's not much to tell. We crashed the shuttle and got caught in a rainstorm. You were hurt. We hid out in a cave and Saru managed to extrapolate our location. We were the only life-signs of our respective size for miles.”

“I see.”

“I was worried.” A pause. The words had slipped out unintentionally, rushing out from her lungs. Philippa forced herself not to glance away, masked her nervousness with a teasing smile. “You were babbling in Vulcan. I'm not exactly fluent.” And she wasn’t, but Michael had slipped from Vulcan to Standard fluidly, the same way Philippa might have tumbled between Standard and Malay.

Michael's shoulders relaxed. A slight release of tension Philippa hadn't even known was present.

“I'm sorry I wasn't of more use,” she said, tone light.

“No harm done.”

 _Rain-worthy_ , Michael had whispered. Despite the fever, her eyes had found her captain’s unerringly, glittering with conviction, her palms had reached out to grasp, to touch.

Philippa was hardly worthy of the kind of awe Michael had showed her. Wouldn’t have shown her, hadn’t _meant_ to show her, not if she hadn’t been gravely injured.

But Philippa had never known herself to be a coward. She pressed forward now, taking her first officer’s hand and turning it palm-up. Above her, a sharp inhale, as she pressed her fingers to Michael's wrist, wishing it could be her lips instead. “Thunder-heart,” Philippa murmured, Michael’s pulse thrumming under her fingers. “Rain-worthy.” Names for warriors who stood their ground, for those with the courage to swallow stars.

Michael's eyes were locked on her captain. A shudder rocked through her torso.

“Not entirely in Vulcan, then,” she surmised. Philippa wondered again if they were back in the storm, if that was the source of this air, heaving. “I have to wonder…” Watching Michael’s throat bob, Philippa swallowed and breathed in with her. “I have to wonder if we’re naming an unpronounceable thing.”

Yes. Yes. Because naming things and giving them power was dangerous, both of them knew that, Philippa had _taught_ Michael that. Philippa was not a coward. But she was practical and so was Michael, and if this was Michael’s answer, then she would do what she had always done when faced with a precipice. This precipice she had been so close to falling over, this precipice Michael had pulled her toward and back from.

Philippa smiled, and made it easy even with the tightness in her throat and around her eyes.

“Get well soon, Number One.” On Michael’s bedside, she left the padd of translated texts. No doubt Michael had read them in the original High Vulcan, but that wasn’t the point and both of them knew it.

Captain Georgiou walked out of sickbay, and didn’t let herself feel loss.

 

_[thirteen days before the binary stars]_


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not caught up on Discovery at all, for the record. I haven't watched the last five episodes. Oh, well. This isn't as polished as I'd like, but enjoy!

After the promotion ceremony, after dinner with her parents, Tilly tried cajoling Michael to go out.

“I know parties aren't really your thing, but this is special,” she said, checking her reflection, fluffing up her hair a little more, keeping her hand steady to adjust her eyeliner, twisting the new pendant necklace from her mother she would never have picked for herself. It was a real mirror; the temporary quarters Starfleet had given them were deliberately old-fashioned, despite being in the heart of modern San Francisco.

“The one time I went to a party, we got caught in a time loop,” Michael said, as dryly as she could manage. She was rummaging through her very small non-Starfleet wardrobe. Amanda had packed her a few eye-catching dresses, but the last thing Michael wanted to be was eye-catching.

“Correlation doesn't equal causation.”

“It's okay, Tilly. Paul and I are going to find a quiet bar and get some drinks.” Tilly paused, chagrined, even though she didn’t have to be.

“O-oh. Should I—do you want me to go with you, or—?”

“No, no. It’s not every day you get promoted to ensign. Go have fun.”

“He’s my friend, too,” Tilly said. She paused. “So was Hugh.” Michael crossed the room to her friend, put a hand on her shoulder.

“Having fun doesn’t mean you care about them any less,” she said. “Hugh wouldn’t have wanted you to miss out, and neither would Paul. Neither would I. Besides, Paul and I need to talk about some things.”

“You know you can talk to me, right? About anything?” Tilly asked anxiously, twisting in her chair to put her hand over Michael’s. Michael took the time to smile reassuringly. Tilly was war-forged, yes, but she was still so young. Barely in her mid-twenties. Michael felt older than the stars.

“I know. Thank you.” Tilly grinned, turning around and fluffing her hair again. Michael laughed. “You look fine. Go find a guy in a band or something.”

“Nah, I’m back on soldiers.”

 

Paul met Michael in a dark, lamp-lit bar. Cozy. Just a locally known bar, not one of the popular ones for cadets and visiting dignitaries. It was just crowded enough to feel anonymous. Old, crackled jazz spilled from a jukebox in the corner—a relic, but a charming, unobtrusive one.

They settled in a booth, Paul nursing a light beer and picking at the fries he’d ordered, nervous, trying to have something to do with his hands. Michael ate one, then stared at one couple slow-dancing, holding each other close. The shorter man turned into his partner's whisper-low words, reverent. Michael’s hands, shoulders, waist ached with absence. Philippa’s fingers had been slim, her palms strong.

Paul was watching the couple too, on and off. Michael saw his glances, short, pained.

“Are you all right?” she asked. On Vulcan, one would never ask. One would know and be silent. Perhaps offer a small act of kindness that would go unacknowledged, but was nevertheless received. That was the way Michael knew to love. But Paul loved words, was never content to let things sit in undercurrents.

“As all right as I can be. It comes and goes. I have my mushrooms and my friends to keep me company, and my parents and Hugh's have both been visiting me. It's better on the ground than on the ship.” Simple. That was the way Paul talked, like emotions were simple truths. He ate another fry, meeting Michael's eyes steadily. “You?”

Emotions were not simple truths for her. She drank slowly, surveying the wood of the table. Paul was patient.

“There are some moments I don’t think about her,” she finally said, meeting his eyes again. Michael tried to match Paul's tone, his concise candor. “I feel like enough, most days. Sometimes I think of her and feel lighter, sometimes it makes things worse.” Paul accepted it all gracefully, without a look of pity or sorrow, merely steady commiseration. His gaze wandered toward the couple again, and his brow furrowed.

“Have you tried talking to her?” he asked. Michael blinked.

“Talking to her?”

“Yeah. I talk to Hugh all the time. It...helps. At least a little.” Michael was silent for a long moment. Paul stood, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “Just think about it.”

 

The apartment was dark when she got back, but Michael had expected that. Tilly wouldn’t be back until much later, if she got back at all—it wasn’t even midnight. Michael took a deep breath. Pulled up that picture of Philippa, the one she’d pulled from the testament, where Philippa looked at her fond, bright-eyed, right after she’d said _hello, Michael_.

“Hello, Philippa.” Michael sat down heavily, unable to withstand her own weight. “My birthday was a few days ago. I forgot about it, with everything else. Strange to think I’m catching up to you, instead of following.” She got up, pacing, avoiding her captain’s gaze. It was still comfortable to have Philippa at her back, but it was no longer comfortable to have her smiling proudly.

The silence pressed.

“Philippa, were we so caught in not naming things—in the hugeness of the unpronounceable between us, that we—did you really think, near the end, that you didn’t even know me?” It came out in one big rush, running out of breath, afraid to run out of words. But now that she had started, the words couldn’t stop spilling over and out and into the dark. Cut off, tumbling, haste interrupting itself. “That last conversation...I didn’t know you could be so cruel. Not in this universe, not in any other. Vulcan wasn’t a shell you had to break. I know you just drew your objectivity around you, I know it wasn’t quite what you felt, but I always did take you at your word, Philippa. Words and actions are important. I thought you knew that.”

The apartment was still dark, and Michael’s hands shook and curled. Tap-tap-tap against the carpet. Heart rumbling in her ears, Philippa’s voice— _I trust you with my life, Commander Burnham—no, never had a doubt._

“You were pushing me towards the captain’s chair because you thought you had lost your objectivity. You didn’t realize I had lost mine, but devotion is not a failing, Philippa. The mutiny, that was a mistake. It was devotion gone too far. It was exactly what you feared. But it wasn’t the feeling, it was the reaction. You always did equate the two. I always thought it was very Vulcan of you.

“I thought I failed you, and I did, but I wondered if we failed each other, and I think—I don’t know that you knew how to handle devotion. Personal devotion, Philippa. Professional devotion, camaraderie, that was only natural, but love? And I shrouded it in professional commitment, kept it in the shadows, and you pretended not to see—

“Were we so caught by what was easy, so intent on avoiding what was hard, on fleeing what we couldn't name—you pretended not to see the edges of my dimly lit devotion, and it made you think you did not know me.

I wonder what you thought, whether love was greater tamed, or greater unleashed.

Maybe it doesn’t matter. You're gone, and the only thing left is your face on someone else.”

Michael looked at her captain’s face. It was not the same as the Emperor’s. Seeing the Emperor’s face, Michael thought, _that’s what killing does to someone._ Killing ripped Philippa apart until she was nothing but burning. A whole universe of killing and the very light was dimmed.

Michael was remembered Connor in the turbolift and his guts under her blade, her grip on the handle. She thought of his body, blown out into space.

_Having killed you, Philippa, what other lights have I extinguished?_

 

There was a soft blue glow in the apartment when Tilly walked back in, trying not to giggle.

“Michael, you’ll never believe what this Andorian did at the bar—” She stopped. A sharp inhale, and she left the room. Michael was curled asleep, faced away from her captain and her gentle smile.


End file.
